


The Hungry, Dangerous, Battles of Royals

by laZardo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Humanstuck, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4176036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laZardo/pseuds/laZardo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The horrorterrors make some trolls poets. Some, they make Empress and royalty, some beggars. Me, they made a hunter. My hand was made for the trigger. My whole life has been one prolonged hunt." - Troll Macklemore, as written by Troll Ryan Lewis</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hungry, Dangerous, Battles of Royals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [savannahsage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/savannahsage/gifts).



> Content Warning: Contains a scene where somebody gets pissed on, because Caliborn is just that kind of douchebag.

**== > FILE OPEN**

**== > Jake English: Fight for your life and loved ones.**

You're cold, hungry, in danger, and completely assnaked apart from your square-rimmed glasses. Every barefoot step you take against the crackling orange and gold leaves of the autumn could betray your position at any point. You've got no defenses about you apart from your wits and your fists. And your friend's badass reverse-edge Eastern swordsmanship skills.

You're stuck on an island somewhere off the Eastern Seaboard with no escape from the big baddie and his legions of henchmen hunting you and your friend down for gog knows what horrors lay beyond.

Your name is also Jake English and you really think this is all a rollicking good time. A test of wit, will and wanton depravity in the throbbing veins of established university tradition!

"It's gonna be dark soon. You do know how to build a fire, right?" Dirk asks. Apart from your partner's sword, Dirk Strider is in about the same situation as you are, down to the lack of clothing.

"Of course! Easy as vigorously rubbing two dry twigs over kindling together, eh?" You've always had an unknowing knack for innuendo, although that's more ascribed to your relative lack of social contact growing up with your Gram off the coast of Tasmania. Said lack of social contact was more than compensated for by your survival skills.

"Good. We can't have the fire out long if they're hunting us." He barely makes eye-contact, although that's more of a wild guess seeing as how you can't see underneath his glasses.

Truth be told, it's not the first time you've had to fend for yourself in some cold, unforgiving wilderness without at least one pair of ornate trusty sidearms. Though this might be the second or third time you've had to do so with only your fists and glasses on hand, pun intended.

"I'll take charge of gathering the kindling!" you add boisterously before Dirk shushes you.

This is definitely the first time since your beloved Gram's death that you're fending for yourself in the wilderness with someone you can trust. Dirk Strider helped get you into this trial of fire and so help you Gog you'll stick by him through thick and thin, tight and loose.

All you have to do is find your way to the lighthouse at the tip of this island just off the coast and fire off a rescue flare without getting completely incapacitated by paintball guns.

How hard could it be?

* * *

  **== > Seriously, how hard could it be?**

**Hours earlier, but not too many...**

Your name is Caliborn English, the head of house of Epsilon Eta Epsilon's 7th Chapter, and you are locking and loading because the ritual has begun. The semi-annual that will determine who possesses the masculine fortitude to squeeze into the annals of the single greatest fraternity in the country.

More than parties where you attempt with regular success to increase the size of your harem of fine bitches, you look forward to these pitiful attempts to increase the size of your member(ship) when you have your initiation rites at the beginning of each term, with deliberately sparse success because really, nothing gets you going like the wanton emasculation of the inferior.

You've given your targets their head start. Soon you'll be joining them on the island just off the coast for the hunt. But of course, no man would go on a hunt without their trusty gear, otherwise they're just asking to be the prey. You've got your hunting cape, your gold-plated paintball gun, and of course, that necessary accessory for the huntsman on the go adorning your bald, green-facepainted head. The gun is extra special, of course.

It's much heavier from the gold-plating, but thanks to personal training from your man-sociates you're plenty rrrrriiiiiiiiiippppppppppped enough to carry it in one hand. Plus, it's been modified to fire more (paint)balls faster than any commercially-available competition or recreational models.

As you step outside the doorway to the outside world, you are a presence that commands subservience, the doorway that serves as a gate accented especially by the coat of arms hanging directly above you. With the phrase "Είμαι ήδη εδώ!" emblazoned under it in multi-colored flickering neon, from which the fraternity's name obviously derives.

Each of the Big Triple E's fourteen fraternity chapters (1st through 7th, 9th through 15th) must have that shield, slogan and the flickering neon underneath to show how fucking awesome you are. That all who are invited, survive and join the most hedonistically indulgent masculine activities will grow up to be the alphas of society, not just alphas in some video game played by nerds.

(On a side note, your 8th and lone sorority chapter also has it, although the fact that there is a society for females let alone one (co-!)run by your own hellspawned harlot of a twin sister is a pitch-black, rotund and morbidly obese stain on your entire Greek society's reputation.)

Your left- and right- hand men exit the building and stand to your sides. Marquis "Arquiusprite" Espiritu and Gamzee Makara have known you and your...quirks... long enough to be considered your solemn brothers-in-arms. Metaphorically of course. While you are not averse to banging hot bitches, touching between males isn't exactly what it used to be. Putting it very, very mildly.

And let's face it: while life, liberty and the pursuit of wanton debauchery is held as the highest ideal in this country, it could never have been made possible without said brothers-in-arms to help you trudge up the mountain of corpses that ~~the university~~ society is built over.

"Let. The hunt. Begin." you declare, opening the semi-annual hunt for all takers.

Your next stop is the nearby docks, where your yacht will pick you up and bring you to the island to hunt down those two pathetic cowards and unleash an unrelenting torrent of pain...t.

* * *

**== > Wait, which pathetic cowards?  
**

**Minutes earlier than that, but not too many either...**

This year they only brought you two. You run your fingers across your obsidian scepter in disappointment.

By "they" you mean the willing volition of the chaff that will mostly be inevitably separated from the wheat that will enrich the mighty that is your fraternity's roster of talent. This year, either through raw rotten luck or perhaps a plague of cowardice afflicting the current crop of the student body, only two candidates have shown up to face rejection. Both of them now kneel before you as you sit on the frat's throne in the middle of the fraternity's ornate party room.

Target #1 is Dirk Strider.

To be fair, you're not even sure if he's officially with the university at all.

Some say he's actually an agent from the Department of Education auditing the courses. Others say they have spotted him sleeping in random closets. Standing up. With his eyes open. Well, they guess they're open behind his glasses. All you know is...he's called a stud (by you, of course). A pretty-boy ninja stud, strong, silent and proficient with a presumably deadly weapon.

Arquiusprite met him in the university's labs building the university's prototype smart-glasses project, and that was how he was introduced to you. He satisfactorily entertained you when you threatened to play games with him in a purely platonic sense. He even earned your favor through the dudeliest of inter-bro favor-currying that would have automatically let him into this exclusive circle of ~~bondaged~~ bonding males.

Specifically, he helped build you your prosthetic leg after your sister malevolently had it cut off. It was totally not a tragic accident or anything what that bitch did, absolutely not. It was pure, violent, and especially crippling cunning that would in other circumstances make your father proud. And Dirk quite literally got you back on your feet, which would have been enough to waive him right past the initiation.

But then he had to insist on bringing Target #2 aka his boyfriend with him like it was no big deal. That crude, hulking excuse for a faux-British "gentleman" that thinks he can muscle his way into your establishment is looking really anxious to begin his initiation rites. Never mind of course that it was your father that not only established this establishment but is also you, your establishment's, and many educational institutions' benefactor, but that's for a different story.

Despite his name, a similar dark shade of skin to you, a love for hand-to-hand combat and wielding excessive amounts of firearms, and especially the fact that he is _not_ from England, Jake English is of no otherwise discernible relation to your family. He is nevertheless attending the university under some kind of international scholarship, which is an insult to you as he did not actually pay his way in (or have living relatives that can do so) like any normal person would do.

Rather than do the easy thing and laugh them out of the building, you put your own formidable intellect to use and realize that you can't just throw out the wiggler with the ablution liquids. That analogy is apparently an in-joke across the university system, but the meaning is crystal clear.

So you leveraged your superior yet underrated business acumen and made it a two for one deal. If they're going to be initiated into the single, most masculine fraternity in the country, they must be able to prove their worthiness.

"Are you two worthless fleshbags. Ready to have your willpower and manliness tested. To the breaking point?" Far from being some kind of speech impediment or result of asthma, you've preferred deliberately fragmenting your sentences as the best way to get your point across.

"Yeah! Ready to take on any and all challenges!" Jake suddenly replies exuberantly.

"Sure," Dirk adds. Up until recently you've respected his monotone and probably wantonly sarcastic voice. It was a straight-to-business voice that doesn't fuck around. But now it mocks you to your core. As if these challenges mean nothing to him.

You stand up from your throne. "There is an island. Just off the coast," you explain, gesturing outward as if you were letting them loose across a continent from some shitty fantasy novel series. "You will go there. And fire the rescue beacon from the lighthouse. Before we find you."

"Sounds simple enough," Dirk nods.

"But there are conditions," you continue with a grin that reveals a gold-plated incisor. "First. No maps. Second. No clothes."

"Oh! Is this what they call going commando? I do love the potential for added hazards!" Jake's face continues to brighten over the thought of the oncoming misadventure.

"FINE! The Strider can bring his sword. But that's it," you interrupt, your palm brushing against your face. "You will have until you get to the island. As a head start. After that. The yacht comes back to bring me over. And then the hunt begins."

You on the other hand can muster all the man-power you can recruit from your battle-hardened veteran corps and of course, you can bring your paintball guns AND smartphones. And Arquiusprite's own info-glasses, which are approximately the same model as Dirk's and very likely loaded with fitness apps.

"Should we find you," you continue, "And we will. You will be subjected. To games of _my_ choosing."

By _your_ game, you mean they will be subject to no less than 24 hours of whatever you and your man-chums will do within the grayest of gray legal areas (grayer than even the gray ladies) and only after that will their acceptance be purely at your discretion depending on how much or how little they begged for mercy throughout.

"The risk of more fearful frights in the event of failure?" Goddammit, Jake is loving this. "Simply exciting!"

You have had just about enough of this boyish enthusiasm. It's one thing for the usual assortment of wannabe frat boys to be flippantly dismissive about these important trials. It's almost flat-out offensive that someone would actually _want_ to subject themselves to it.

Which will make it all the more satisfying watching that enthusiasm will evaporate when you actually _do_ subject them to it.

A man with dark auburn hair that could be mistaken for maroon enters the room. You have been expecting your second in command and his green college letterman-clad torso.

"Crowbar. Take them to the island. Let them think. They're going to be successful."

"Sure thing, boss. Let's go." he replies with a hint of an Irish accent, before he gestures for the two to follow him out.

You swear Dirk's glasses glinted mischievously at you. You know it's a mischievous glint from all the man-gas you read in your spare time. Of course you read man-gas. Even a proud frat leader such as yourself has to have some kind of geeky side, that's how you get ahead.

That and your dad's lawyer just in case you navigate off those gray areas into pitch black parts unknown.

* * *

**== > Enough of the prologue, time for hard fucking!  
**

You are now currently Dirk Strider and as you practice your reverse-edged sword technique on a small outcropping facing the eastern side of the island you definitely hope you are  _not_ about to get fucked hard. Metaphorically.

You and presumably Jake are scouting on this wooded far side of a hill, where you were able to get your bearings and spot the lighthouse you had to get to. You both expect to get there around sundown, the benefit of a 2x survival skills training combob. It hasn't been extremely cold or warm yet on this fall afternoon, even as the extremes are lot closer to each other given your utter lack of attire. Said lack of attire however allows your body to better detect the movements of the air, allowing you to focus on the important things. Like the pursuit.

You know that Caliborn and his henchmen are lurking around the island somewhere. You know they know the island better than you do seeing as how they've conducted initiations here before. You know that with the right amount of focus you could probably slice up individual paintballs as they fly through the air.

Your attention shifts to the display on your glasses. "Hal" can't act like some video game radar, but with the right frequency they can directionally detect multiple noise sources, only one of which is likely to be friendly. Jake's been making good on his word to gather kindling for the fire you're likely to set up in your quest to find the beacon and the lighthouse.

They're definitely lurking around if they're not closing in. You haven't heard Jake call out for help yet, so you know they haven't gotten to him yet.

It's time to keep moving. You climb down from the outcropping and prepare for confrontation with the nearest possible noise source.

All that ends when you here a loud click and feel a sharp sting on the back of your leg. Like someone shot through it. Then a burst of these stings to your back and arms.

You let out a yelp through a clenched jaw in pain, your sword clatters to the ground as you drop to one knee, then multiple large stinging sensations on your back force you to your hands and knees.

They've got you, and Jake's gone, probably fleeing for his life if he knows what's good for him.

Yep. You're fucked hard.

* * *

**== > Caliborn: Celebrate.  
**

You are now Caliborn and one sucker's down and there's one more to go.

You ~~got lucky~~ have been tracking them closely, the benefits of knowing the island you've always used as a staging ground for your new initiates' humiliation, and the benefit of having Arquiusprite be a tech wiz who has the entire island on satellite watch. You saw that poor sucker waiting around for his friend and from there it was a matter of just letting him have it in the knee. And the back. With paintballs fired from a gun with an unrestricted compressor.

The poor bastard goes down incapacitated, his sword clattering away.

You place your paintball gun by a nearby tree and unzip your fly, pulling down your underwear to reveal your OTHER weapon. Your weapon of mass emasculation requires you to have both hands on your hips for optimum humiliation.

Your successful conquest of this clearly beta male specimen has given you a hateboner. Which unfortunately is not an actual boner (which in turn would upgrade to a weapon of mass _ejaculation_ ), but more of an actual need to properly denigrate and degrade the inferior opponent by marking him as such, below even the females that will eventually comprise your harem, before telling him flat out that he and his boyfriend are rejected and permanently disbarred from getting anywhere near the Epsilon Eta Epsilon house. And that's before still subjecting him to your special _games._

In layman's terms, you're gonna piss on this little bitch. And technically, it's not illegal because it's not exactly happening on university grounds or within the jurisdiction of any law enforcement organization with a reach this far.

"You should have. Went with me. Instead of that stupid gorilla." you boast as you look down at your fallen opponent, who landed face down, clearly too ashamed to face the golden sprinkle of humiliation now trickling onto his naked back.

You were so caught up in your gloating that you did not see an assnaked Jake English abduct your precious dispenser of pain(t) and aim it at you with the full intent of abseiling you in vengeance for his fallen love interest. You didn't know that even happened until you hear someone shouting "Tally ho!" at such a peak of voice to be construed as screaming, only to turn around mid-stream and find an assnaked Jake English pointing said gun at you with said intent. You are now helpless and vulnerable, the opposite of what an ideal man should be, and it's all your fault.

In short, you, a battle-hardened veteran, made the unfathomably rookie mistake of turning your back on the body.

You do not have long to realize your fatal mistake before your body makes unwilling contact with your own (paint)balls.

* * *

**== > Jake: Make him pay.**

You are Jake English and by the time your instincts catch up with you you've already gone through half the canister. Or the half that Caliborn didn't use anyway. You'd know the sound that an empty gun makes, so you're pretty sure you can figure out what an empty paintball gun would sound like and so far you haven't heard it.

Not that you need to when paintballs are punching holes through his cape and clothing and this so-called Frat Alpha is going down in slow motion to the imagined sound of some Imogen Heap vocalization.

When you finally catch your breath he's just laying there. Grumbling. And leaking the remainder of his humiliation uselessly onto the soil. And fortunately not on top of Dirk in some kind of bizarrely provocative position.

"C'mon, ol' pal, we've got to get you out of here." You can smell where Caliborn marked him as you offer a hand.

"Mmmnh...fine..." He turns over and appears to cringe from the smell of it too.

"Everything's gonna be alright," you say as you help him up, "We just have to start moving before-"

"Time for you to cease, mother-" The cough gives them both away, and you turn to face them with a look in your eyes that says you have been completely consumed by unfathomable paintlust. Oh, and you point the paintball gun at them too, which keeps them from returning fire.

Caliborn's right and left-hand men have caught up, no doubt alerted by your battlecry. On one hand, Marquis "Arquiusprite" Espiritu is Caliborn's multiple-certified personal trainer, his pointy anime glasses in Dirk's exact style and red-tipped dreads that betray an obsession for personal fitness and quasi-legal horse steroids. He also coughs when he's about to swear. He is _also_ sweating profusely at the fact that there is more than one "weapon" pointed at him right now, because one thing that sets you apart from the frathead with the same name is that when you have a hateboner, well...

On the other hand you have Gamzee Makara. Nobody really says or knows much about that gangly music production student with the juggalo paint apart from the fact that he was just a few years older enough to Caliborn and his sister to be their long-time babysitter. What you do know is that the look on the face is hiding something curiously relevant to the scars across it, but that's not something you want to find out. Not right now anyway.

"Are you two charlatans going to admit us into your gentleman's club now?" you demand.

"You haven't found the lighthorse yet," Arquiusprite replies, raising his gun, "And you won't escape- ...oh my."

It is only then that the two recognize their fallen comrade. Or Arquiusprite notices that there is "more" than one weapon pointed at him.

"Damn," Gamzee mutters. "You did an entire motherfucking symphony of numbers on that motherfucker."

"Diggety darn straight I did!" you declare, "Take his body. If he desires his precious armaments back, that wanker will have to allow us to join your ranks!"

"Fine, we'll allot you a couple of hours," Arquiusprite sneers as he seems to easily heft Caliborn's muscled and painted (m)ass over his shoulder. "But we _will_ find you. Let's go."

Gamzee shrugs and gives a nod as the two turn away and march back around the hill. You keep the gun pointed in their general direction.

"We've...got 30 minutes," Dirk snarls as he smoothly lets go of you. "Don't worry, I can still walk."

"Oh look," you then say as you point to what appears to be a paint-defiled trilby on the ground near where Caliborn fell. "He dropped his precious head decoration."

"Just leave the damn thing," he replies, limping back to his sword and picking it up. He checks to see if its collision with the ground damaged its structural integrity. Even glorious allegedly-Japanese steel folded ten thousand times can still have its flaws, but fortunately for Dirk at least, it's still usable for the time being. And hopefully still sharp enough to cut through the other paintball guns. "I'll finish it off."

"No wait," you put your free hand out, "The ol' bugger loves this disgusting little thing so dearly, perhaps we shall hold it from the king for a king's ransom."

" _You_ take it then," Dirk replies, shrugging as he fixes his glasses, which curiously remained anchored to his ears despite his fall. "We still have to get to the lighthouse as quickly as possible before they come back."

"Chipper," you concur as you let the hat rest on the canister. "Oh, and I forgot one thing..."

Before Dirk can ask what it is, you give him a big burly hug. Suddenly the weight of the gun with all its gold plating and the fedora on top doesn't matter anymore. Suddenly it doesn't matter that the two of you are naked and initiating full-body contact, although perhaps you could have waited for him to say yes to the hug. In a way, he does, not just because he doesn't try to cut your throat or push you away.

"It's cool, man." he says softly. "A bit fucked up. But cool."

Because there used to be a time when two men could initiate intimate contact like this and not have to worry about associated homophobia. Because maybe, amidst all the strifing and the absconding, maybe there is time for something that isn't hard fucking. Like taking a few moments to rest and regain your strength and remember what and who you fight for.

"The beach is nearby," he adds as he lets go and starts walking, "Gotta wash off all this paint before it affects my circulatory system."

* * *

**== > Dirk & Jake: Rest and regain your strength, for the objective is still a long trek away.**

You cannot currently do that right now because you are currently fucking on the beach not too far from the lighthouse as the sun sets. Come on, this was inevitable.

It started sweetly enough. The two of you sat on the beach watching the sky redden and then turn a quiet muted blue. Caliborn's gun remains in reach, while his tribly is impaled into the sand with Dirk's sword upright. You used the sea to clean yourselves off from your encounter with Caliborn and his henchmen and you cannot help but notice your own bodies glistening in the oncoming moonlight.

Then you started kissing. Well, you kinda pecked him on the cheek and he returned it with liplock. When you let go after about 20 seconds of muted moans and grunts, you asked if, maybe, you could.

You don't exactly finish because he gets what you mean, and he tells you it was all right. Or that everything is going to be all right. Either one or both suffices.

He straddles you and you lay on your back across the sand. He slinks back and props up your legs and oh god your fingers are digging into the sand as he frots with his left hand. Lifting your body seems almost effortless for him despite his condition, much less to pleasure the both of you at the same time, but your vision blurs feel like you're dissolving as you well up inside.

You finish quickly, but he keeps going for a few seconds more before he does. The way your body is curled upward, your glasses deflect some of your discharge, and his barely grazes your chin.

But you don't feel like you're coming down. Not by far. You feel a thrill going through you that lasted longer than that moment when you shot a different load into someone else's flesh hours ago.

"I gotta...must...keep going..." you stammer through erratic breaths. "Shall we?"

"Your turn..." he chuckles almost darkly, as he slinks down onto you. You roll to your side and take him with you, but get up to kneel once his body ends up under yours. He then adjusts himself to face down. The sight of his wounds scabbing over puts you off a little - no - maybe that he owes you - NO.

No. That you both survived and will continue to. Or try to. Maybe it's not completely life threatening like the isolated environments the two of you grew up in. Maybe this is a bit too much for your first major social interaction together, in the pressure cooker of a fraternity initiation.

But you want to relish this moment as much as you can. Even if they happen on you as you're relishing it.

You're holding him up by his hips as you thrust into him in deep, rapid motions. He pants and moans as he reaches back to help prop himself up against you, his arms still regaining their composure from the first orgasm, his cheeks grinding into the sand.

He still grasps onto you as he props himself up with his other arm, your burly chest resting on his back as you move downward. But he doesn't let go as you keep thrusting, breathing on the back of his neck where it will feel so good. In fact he keeps helping you forward as his fingers find their way to your rim and start teasing it.

This time finishes first, his second causing him to clench around you as he spurts across the sand under you, and you finish into him with a choked scream of ecstasy.

The two of you slump forward onto the sand, though you direct yourself just to your side so you don't crush him into the sand.

"Golly..." you whimper, "That was...a walloping good time."

"Yeah," Dirk replies with a quiet chuckle. "We should probably finally see what's waiting for us in that lighthouse. After we clean up again, anyway."

* * *

**== > Dirk: Okay, time for rescue.**

You cannot activate the rescue beacon because there isn't any.

"There's no beacon here," Dirk confirms, helping you complete a fruitless search in and around the lighthouse. "The generator's broken, so they weren't referring to the lighthouse either."

The two of you made your way across the beach and into the lighthouse after your amazing love scene. It wasn't too hard to locate under the moonlight, although you did have to watch out for what remained of the punched-out windows. Other than that the old installation hadn't decayed too badly, allowing you to get to the top and confirm that the lighthouse was, indeed, nonfunctional.

"Are you yanking my chain!?" you respond, hands suddenly attaching themselves to your head in shock. "So this rite of passage was rigged in their favor?"

"Caliborn never intends anyone to really _win_ his games," he explains, still staring at the skies. "I doubt he even expected anyone to get this far."

"Really worries the dog, that's what. But now how are we getting back?" you mope. "I mean, I'm up for a swim, but..."

"We're going to go find their boat and take that back, if they're still looking for us."

"Right," you reply, putting one hand under your chin in thought, "But we're going to have to distract them. Ah! I have the perfect idea!"

Thirty minutes later, a bandaged Caliborn is letting out primal screams of unbridled masculine rage as he beholds the remnants of his prized accessory fluttering away in a beach bonfire's dying embers, his henchmen trying to hold him back. Another thirty minutes after that, you and Dirk are having sloppy thirds in Caliborn's yacht as you have it drift powered off across the channel so they can't spot it, the moonlight gently illuminating your motions and gyrations through the windows, his precious gun multiple fathoms under the channel.

The two of you decide that you have never fucked in a better bed.

**== > FILE END**

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Chofi ([my-friend-the-frog](http://my-friend-the-frog.tumblr.com/)) on tumblr for sex pose references because this is my first time writing porn like this. I'm sorry.


End file.
